Fogged breath
by Cinna and his Clothes
Summary: Most people think Cato volunteered because he wanted to win. That he killed because he was ruthless. But what if that's not the case? What if he volunteered to protect Clove? What if he killed to save her? What if he killed after she had died to avenge her death?
1. Six-years-old

When they were young, it was different. They were so close; they could have been siblings.

They met when they were six, on the first day of school. Clove trudged to the bus stop like her mother had shown her. When she got there, she went over and sat under a tree. But then a shadow fell over her. She looked up to see a boy twice her age, with light hair and eyes. He reached down and grabbed her collar.

'Hi there little girl! Do you have any money for me?' He snarled.

'M-money? W-hat do you m-mean?' She trembled and struggled against his iron

grip.

'I mean; give me your money!' He shoved her away and grabbed her school bag. Unzipped it. The contents of her bag was thrown onto the ground. Books, a pencil case, and her purse. He smiled and grabbed her purse, rifling through it and fisting the coins that her mother had handed her for lunch money.

'Wait! Stop! That's my money for lunch!' She yelled at the boy.

'Is it really? Well I guess you'll have to do without lunch today.'

'Ryker!' She heard a yell and peered around to see another boy, but this one was her age. He looked just like the mean boy.

'Ryker! Why did you do that? It's so mean!' And he ran up and punched the mean boy in the stomach. The mean boy walked off, smirking. The little boy went up to her.

'Hi,' he said, 'that was my brother. He's really mean. Did he hurt you?'

Clove's eyes were wet with tears of fear.

'No. But he took all my money for lunch,' she whimpered. The boy picked up all her things and handed them back to her. Then he unzipped his bag and handed her some money.

'Here. Have some of mine.'

Clove looked at the boy. He had sandy hair and light eyes, just like his brother.

'Thank you.' She put the money in her bag. 'What's your name? Mine's Clove.'

'I'm Cato.'

Just then, the bus came in. Clove had only seen the bus a few times. It was the only school in district two that had a bus. Clove felt very privileged. As they walked to the bus door, Cato grabbed her hand. His hand was warm and smooth. They entered the bus, and looked down the isle to see lots of kids older tha them. The walked down, until they came to two empty seats.

'Can I sit next to you?' Clove asked shyly.

'Yes,' Cato replied.

And that was it. They were firm friends from then on. They shared lunch, played games and sat next to each other. After school Clove would walk home but Cato's mother (who drove in a car), would pick her up and drive her home. She was happy that Ryker always sat in the front, so that she would never have to sit next to him. She had never, ever seen a car before. Cato's mother was the only person she knew that had one.

But it's all different now. Over the years, their fingers became further and further apart, until they were not touching at all. Cato formed a new group of friends, and so did Clove. Cato was popular, Clove was middle-class. Cato's mother stopped driving Clove home, in fact she stopped driving past Clove at all. But they still loved each other. Day in day out they thought about each other. They tried to pretend to themselves that they didn't like each other any more, but deep down their fiery passion for each other blazed.

And nothing could be done.


	2. Twelve-years-old

Clove stared out of the window, her breath becoming fog that clung to the glass. She watched him, sitting by the tree where they first met, waiting for the mother that would never come. Everyone knew that his mother had died two days ago. It was the talk of the school. She watched his blue eyes flicker up to the bus window she was looking out. He couldn't see her though. The bus windows were tinted as dark as her eyes. He was _thinking_ about her though. Her eyes, her dark eyes, perfectly contrasting with her dark hair.

'Clove! What are you looking at?' Her friend Alana interrupted her thoughts. Clove ignored the question and slowly turned to Alana, her eyes still lingering on the patch of foggy breath left on the window.

Cato sat at the tree, knowing in his head that his mother would never come in her car to pick him up. But he sat there for an hour anyway, waiting for the familiar wheels to roll past the road. But, of course, she never came. As it was getting dark, he began to walk the stretch home. On his way, he passed the old theatre. He used to go there with his mother to watch the musicals. His mother loved musicals. He didn't want to go home to the house, so silent without the chatter of his mother's laugh and the smell of her cooking bread in the oven.

He ran over to the theatre door. Reaching down, he grabbed a stick and slowly picked the lock. Clove had taught him how to do this, when they were nine years old. He entered the room, and walked through the foyer to the auditorium. The plush black seats lined up in rows towards the stage. They would be a good place to spend the night. As he lay down, shivering even in his coat, he could remember those nights with his mother, sitting in those seats, watching the stage come alive. As reality began to mingle with dreams, he thought of Clove. The girl with the dark eyes, whom he saved from his brother at the tender age of six.

Now; at twelve years old, he realised what a beautiful girl she was. And how much he loved her.


End file.
